


Right Your Wrongs

by prototyping



Category: Tales of Vesperia
Genre: Action, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic, TalesWhumpWeek, i don't have any joke tags for this one tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/prototyping
Summary: He couldn’t stop to consider his personal feelings anymore than he had stopped to consider his conscience in the last several years. Those parts of himself were the sacrifice, the cost of the dark and all-consuming power Flynn had cautioned him against so long ago.[Yuri, Flynn. Done for the prompt “self-destruction” in the TalesWhumpWeek challenge on tumblr.]





	Right Your Wrongs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AloryShannon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AloryShannon/gifts).



_You were right._

Those were the only words to come to mind when Yuri saw Flynn again for the first time in two years.

He’d had that same thought more than once recently. Sometimes it came to him in a flash of anger, at others in a sunken mood of disappointment and regret. A couple times it made him smile, bitter and broken and thankful that at least one of them had kept a good head on his shoulders.

But now he didn’t really feel _anything_ as the admission crossed his mind—just the familiar pang of irony and the tight weight in his chest that he hardly even noticed anymore—and it reassured him that _this_ time, at least, he had made the right choice.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. Neither smiled like they once would have done. It wasn’t a happy reunion on either side.

“If you’re expecting an apology, I’m afraid you’ll have to get in line. But taking this long to catch a high-profile criminal? Honestly, that one’s all on you.” The casual indifference was the same, but the joke fell flat regardless. Maybe Yuri’s heart wasn’t in the attempt at humor, or maybe it was just the echo of the stone walls throwing his voice right back at him. Only he knew the difference, and his lazy half-smile wasn’t telling. 

Flynn’s face was grim, but his hand didn’t touch the sword at his side. “Considering the notoriety of the criminal in question, my pride isn’t hurt too much.”

“You’ve strayed into the wrong side of politics if you think flattery’s getting you anywhere.”

“If I thought it would, I’d have tried it on you long before now.”

Yuri snorted softly. Drawing his legs up, he perched his arms on his knees and watched his hands hang between them. “If you’re not here to make me feel good about myself, I guess there’s only one other reason you’d track me down.”

“Twenty-seven reasons,” Flynn corrected, tone hard. “That I know about.”

Yuri didn’t look up. His borderline humor disappeared. “And you still came alone.”

“I know you’re not so far gone that you’d turn your sword on someone undeserving of it.”

“And how are you so sure you fall in that ‘undeserving’ category?”

Flynn’s pause lasted only a heartbeat. “If I didn’t,” he answered slowly, “I think you would have started with me.”

Yuri’s fists clenched, loosened. He said nothing.

After another brief pause, Flynn drew closer and Yuri made sure the abrupt tension in his shoulders was visible. If Flynn noticed, that didn’t stop him. Instead he did the last thing Yuri expected, or wanted: he sat down beside him. This time Yuri stared openly at him, but Flynn looked utterly at ease—though tired—as he tilted his head back to gaze at the ceiling.

“Hiding out in caves,” he mused solemnly. “That’s a new low.” The almost-joke was there, but didn’t quite make it through in his voice, either.

“Not like I had much farther to fall.”

Flynn made a quiet, impatient sound. “We’ve seen rock-bottom, Yuri. We both know that’s not where you are.”

Mirroring his pose, Yuri set his head against the cold stone. “Depends on the scale you’re using. If you weigh the lives of victims against their aggressors, sure, I’m in the right.” He let his eyes fall closed—mostly. “But whatever your motives are at the end of the day, it takes something in particular to be the aggressor. In that regard, my side of the scale weighs the same as theirs.”

_It takes arrogance. Indifference. Self-interest._ Those three things varied from person to person, but that was what hurting others boiled down to. For good, for bad, for justice, it didn’t matter.

Flynn sounded agitated. “Don’t compare yourself to them.”

“Oh?” Yuri opened one eye to fix him with it. “Justice is supposedly blind, isn’t it? If the law took motives and intentions into account, you wouldn’t be here.”

“And since when do you care what the law says?” Flynn appeared to stop himself from saying more, and instead gathered his thoughts for a few seconds before speaking again. “I’m not here solely as Commandant. As your friend, I understand where you’re coming from—you’re doing what you think is right. It’s still wrong, but that doesn’t make you a monster.”

“Just… what, then? Misguided?”

“Among other things.”

Yuri leaned forward, a couple of his joints popping with the motion. He’d been here a while. “You know that saying: how do you kill a monster without becoming one? I’m starting to think it was rhetorical.”

He could feel the weight of Flynn’s glare. “Since when are you so determined to put yourself down like this?”

“I guess I just ran out of excuses before you did.” In a quick motion Yuri stood up. He’d barely turned around when Flynn did the same, and for another moment they regarded one another in terse silence.

Flynn’s expression was stern, but his eyes gave away his sympathy. “Tell me something: you don’t honestly blame yourself for what happened, do you?” When Yuri didn’t answer right away, Flynn shifted his weight restlessly. “Yuri—”

“You take away a resource that the population depends on for everyday life. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that some would abuse that opportunity.” Words he’d repeated to himself again and again for three years now. “Everyone from doctors to mercenaries hike their prices. Politicians favor certain cities over others, so some end up overcrowded while others are left to suffer on their own. Loan sharks have a field day with all of it.” He stared down at his open hand, calloused and scarred. “And suddenly the world seems worse off than before.”

And he was left standing in the middle of it all, someone who had never asked to change the whole world, let alone save it or damn it or _anything_. One incident led to another and suddenly he’d been left with more responsibility than he ever cared to have—and he hadn’t turned away from it, not once. He’d done what he could. Just like now, no matter how tired he felt just living day-to-day. No matter how out of place he felt in his own skin at times.

“And yet the alternative would have been worse,” Flynn reasoned coolly. “You knew the risks. We all did. We didn’t choose this path lightly.” He shook his head. “If you really believe your actions were a mistake, then I’m just as guilty as you for not finding a better solution back then.”

_Just as guilty._

Yuri’s arm dropped back to his side.

Just as guilty. What a joke.

“I didn’t regret any of them,” said Yuri coldly. That was a lie. “Not until recently.” He met Flynn’s penetrating gaze. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one. A noble from Zaphias moves out to Capua Nor to expand his banking business. Legal enough on the surface, but down below he’s fixing debts and deadlines, hiring thugs and using all kinds of underhanded tricks to make sure his clients end up paying extra fees or going bankrupt. Wouldn’t be so bad by worldly standards, if some of those cases hadn’t cost entire families their food and sick people their medicine.”

Flynn didn’t look surprised. He likely knew the story already, but he didn’t interrupt.

“So I take him out,” Yuri goes on calmly. “And it turns out he had enemies. Lots of them. The kind who would seize everything he had to make sure their own debts were settled—even if it meant evicting the guy’s wife and three kids from their home and onto the streets.”

A wife and three kids who had known nothing of their patriarch’s underworld dealings.

A wife and three kids who would struggle to get by because their name was now a scarlet letter cutting them off from any local sympathy. And where would they get the money to set up a new life elsewhere? Would that be before or after they were done mourning a husband and father who had been nothing but loving and supportive in their eyes?

How many more lives—innocent lives—had been ruined by the domino effect of Yuri’s actions without his knowing?

For the first time, Flynn deliberately broke eye contact. His pained look was also an understanding one. “I did hear. And I guessed that was why the murders appeared to hit a lull in the last few weeks.”

“It’s the greyscale world we live in,” Yuri continued, as if he hadn’t heard him. “And then you still have people like me who want to pretend it’s black and white.”

“Then stop,” said Flynn bluntly. “If you can’t guarantee the innocent won’t suffer from your actions, then you of all people should know it’s time to quit. You can start making up for it by fighting these injustices legitim—”

“I can’t stop.”

It wasn’t said aggressively or even loudly, but those words hung in the air for several long beats like an echo. Maybe Yuri’s heavy, straightforward tone—as if this were a simple matter with a simple solution—made it that much worse, because Flynn looked as though he had misheard.

“What do you mean you _can’t?_ ”

“If I stop, the untouchables go unchecked and people keep suffering. If I keep going, people might suffer anyway, but…” He sighed quietly, the sound tired. He shrugged. “That’s a chance I have to take, if it means _doing_ something.”

Flynn went very, very still.

_I know you’re not so far gone that you’d turn your sword on someone undeserving of it._

Yuri was sure he was rethinking those words now. They were true, but only on a technicality.

Cause and effect.

Then Yuri did him one worse: he abruptly turned on his heel as if to leave. “If we’re done here, I have a couple stops to make in Mantaic and Halure. Otherwise you need to wake up and get seri—”

The predictable sound of steel unsheathing made him stop. He hesitated longer than necessary, but of course Flynn wouldn’t—couldn’t—stab him in the back. Yuri turned back slowly, his face impassive.

“Is this why you haven’t spoken with Lady Estellise or the rest of your friends in so long? You’ve been afraid someone might knock some sense back into you?” Those bright blue eyes were blazing.

Turning his words back at him, Yuri remarked casually, “If I thought it was that simple, I’d have let them try it a long time ago.” In a blur he drew his own sword, the clatter of his discarded scabbard loud in the quiet cave mouth. “I’m walking out of here, Flynn,” he told him. “Don’t make me change my mind about how _undeserving_ you are.”

Flynn’s smile was sharp and sad. “If you’ve really fallen so far,” he said quietly, “I’m as undeserving as they come.”

That, of everything said so far, gave Yuri pause for the briefest instant. He knew Flynn blamed himself and would go on blaming himself, no matter what happened here today—but he was strong, he was good, he was _better_ and he would recover over time. He would find something and someone else to keep him going, surely, something and someone else to live for.

Surely.

_I’m just as guilty—_

_—I’m as undeserving as they come._

But what if he didn’t?

Yuri was careful to keep his face blank, but his hesitation must have shown regardless: Flynn unexpectedly moved first. Those thoughts and doubts were hastily cast aside as blade met blade in a clash of force and noise that nearly forced Yuri a step backwards. Skin braced against flat steel to hold off Flynn’s weight, swords shrieked as they skimmed and parted and met again.

Flynn lacked his shield; perhaps he’d been too optimistic in thinking it was unnecessary for this meeting, but somehow Yuri doubted it. That caution was rewarded moments later when Flynn sidestepped an overhead swing aimed for his right shoulder—and in the same motion passed his sword to his left hand and countered with an upward swipe.

Yuri twisted on his heel, taking a skim to his hip instead of a gash through his thigh, and used the momentum of the half-spin to jump back for some breathing room.

Flynn wasn’t giving him the chance. Before Yuri could even open his mouth for a sarcastic remark, Flynn was on him again, still wielding left-handed—and while _he_ was used to dueling against ambidexterity, Yuri’s reflexes weren’t quite as honed in that regard. The split-second he needed to take in and adjust to Flynn’s sudden shift in stance was a split-second too many.

His block was sloppy, lacking his full strength, and Flynn’s sword might as well have been a battering ram: the swing knocked Yuri’s arm aside with enough force to make it throb from wrist to shoulder. It also exposed his core completely, leaving him wide open.

_Well,_ he mused darkly, _that was fast._

—But it was Flynn’s empty hand that drew back, and his fist slammed into Yuri’s cheek in the textbook example of an ideal right hook.

Surprise, frustration, and a touch of grim amusement spun in Yuri’s ringing head as he stumbled sideways. He tasted blood—and felt it brimming along the cuts in his skin left by Flynn’s gauntlets.

Flynn finally let up in his assault. He watched Yuri without a word, letting him recover, or perhaps waiting to see if _that_ had knocked some sense into him.

Yuri spat blood onto the floor with a cheeky snort. “Even when you fight dirty, you do it perfectly.” He tried tilting his head to pop the strain that punch had put in his neck, but only succeeded in making himself wince. “You overachieving bastard.”

Flynn didn’t humor him with a response, but the silence wasn’t surprising. They were past the point of their usual banter.

Squeezing his hilt, Yuri tested the feeling in his arm as the two of them exchanged level gazes.

The doubt crept back in. The question came back.

_But what if he didn’t?_

This time he moved first. He didn’t intend to simply take a beating.

Flynn’s armor made weak points harder to find, but it also meant he was slower. Even if he’d worn it long enough to take the weight into consideration, Yuri was still faster and he knew Flynn’s techniques better than anyone. His screw-up just now hadn’t accounted for the possibility that Flynn would fall back into his old, pre-Knights way of fighting.

He was glad for that. It made things a little more interesting—a little more exciting.

For the first in a long while, Yuri’s opponent would be challenging. He’d thought he was sick of the sword by now, his talent and interest permanently stained by grim necessity—but the prospect of this fight, of _letting loose_ and running himself ragged against someone who could both take it and deal it in earnest, already had his pulse racing and blood rushing and suddenly this was the best mood he’d been in since he couldn’t remember when—

And as they clashed again, blades singing and palms aching, Yuri knew Flynn felt it, too. Maybe it was lost beneath everything else he was feeling right then, but it was still there.

The two of them were, ironically, similar in most ways.

There were few words and even fewer pauses between their movements. They fought as if scripted; their motions were instinct and memorization as much as forethought and reaction. Yuri took a hard cut to his bicep and switched hands in a heartbeat to counter with a well-aimed blow of his hilt to the inside of Flynn’s elbow. It stunned just long enough for Yuri to throw a point-blank punch, but Flynn caught his wrist and returned with a knee to his gut that crushed the air from his lungs.

Instead of trying to recover, Yuri dropped to the ground and rammed his hilt into the back of Flynn’s knee as hard as he was able. It buckled, Flynn stumbled, and Yuri returned the favor by bringing both knees up into the knight’s chest, knocking him flat, and then righted himself a second later in a spin that brought his sword down towards the vulnerable space on the inside of Flynn’s shoulder—but Flynn’s arm blurred and he took the blow to his vambrace instead, deflecting Yuri’s sword off-course and buying himself the opening for a return swing of his own. It raked across Yuri’s chest—superficial, but still smarting—and cost him just enough of his balance that he retreated to catch it.

Flynn was on his feet again in an instant, but he didn’t give chase. For a few rapid beats they stared each other down, too far apart to mistrust the other’s intentions, but each gripping their weapons too tightly to relax.

“Time,” Flynn breathed suddenly, harshly. “I just—need time, Yuri. Things are getting better.”

Yuri’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. His expression must have spoken for his skepticism, since Flynn pushed, “Maybe you’ve been too _busy_ to notice, but you’ve made a name for yourself. People start thinking twice when rumors reach their cities.”

“Thinking twice,” Yuri echoed, “but not stopping. They just try to be more careful.”

Flynn ignored him. “And believe it or not, the Knights _are_ on the right side of things. Working within the law takes time, but we’re making progress. Just—” He shook his head, as if already guessing the futility of what he was about to say. “Just _trust me_ for once. Stop trying to take responsibility for everything. Let me try things my way just a little longer. And if…” The leather on his hilt creaked as his grip tightened. “If it’s not enough, you can settle it with me later. After everything’s said and done.”

Were he within reach, Yuri would have paid him back for that punch right then. Instead he gave an annoyed grunt, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “And _every_ time there’s guilt to be thrown around, it’s all about you, isn’t it? Commandant Scifo, the hero always ready and willing to shoulder the sins of the—”

“Like you can _talk!_ ” In a flash and a swing Flynn closed the distance between them. Their blades locked. He put most of his weight forward, pinning Yuri in place. It wasn’t often—never, really—that he fully raised his voice in actual anger. It was even rarer for real, unbridled fury to fill his face. Yuri was on the receiving end of both. “Don’t lecture _me_ about playing hero, Yuri! I know _damn_ well that you’ve been _anything_ but selfish! What makes it alright for you to throw everything away while I reap the benefits, huh?”

Flynn wrenched their stalemate apart and surprised him with a solid kick to his chest that sent Yuri stumbling. He didn’t stop there: Yuri had barely regained his balance when the knight bore down on him again, still with the full strength of his muscle, weight, and anger combined. His next stroke missed and his sword struck stone hard enough to incite sparks. He didn’t miss a beat, instantly switching hands with another broad sweep that caught and opened up Yuri’s forearm. Even then he didn’t stop.

This wasn’t about the law anymore, or even the murders. In Flynn’s mind this was all coming down to Yuri—his best friend, the man he’d become, and the realization that the once fine line between the two wasn’t just a blur now, but gone entirely. They were no longer two sides, but a ratio, and it seemed it was finally dawning on him that one now vastly outweighed the other.

It brought the question back.

_But what if he didn’t?_

What if Yuri was overestimating his lifelong friend—and _this_ would be the one thing he couldn’t take? What if this was yet another innocent, unrelated life that would be ruined by Yuri’s stubbornness and pride, all because it had been intertwined with the wrong person at the wrong time?

It was a very real possibility, he acknowledged. Unlikely, but possible.

And yet—

_I can’t stop._

Those words were truer and more damning than either of them had realized.

He couldn’t stop himself.

He couldn’t stop this fight.

He couldn’t stop to consider his personal feelings anymore than he had stopped to consider his conscience in the last several years. Those parts of himself were the sacrifice, the cost of the dark and all-consuming power Flynn had cautioned him against so long ago.

_You were right. You were right, you were always right—_

He couldn’t stop to consider _Flynn_ —because Flynn was the only one who stood a chance at stopping him.

And in a twisted bit of irony, Flynn _needed_ to be the one to stop him. He would never forgive himself if it fell to someone else—just as he might never forgive himself if it fell to him.

This was the true quandary of _heroes_ , the dark and ugly parts that storybooks didn’t mention and grown-ups didn’t teach. It was a far cry from childhood dreams and knights in shining armor, the shadowed underbelly that lurked beneath the life of every man, woman, and child because anyone and everyone had the potential to take the wrong path and find themselves at an ending without a happily ever after—or to have the wrong path take _them_.

The world wasn’t so black and white, but Yuri judged it as though it were. It was all he could do at this point. Even if _things got better_ , there would always be exceptions—that quiet, urgent call to the side of him that refused to look away, that was in far too deep to consider the path of repentance, that took Barbos’ dying words to heart all these years later and accepted them like one accepted a death sentence: sad but inevitable, maybe even justified.

Maybe he wasn’t entirely in his right mind anymore. Or maybe he was the sanest person alive in this otherwise chaotic and unfair world. He stopped thinking about it a long time ago. He stopped caring.

People weren’t people anymore, they were categories: aggressors and victims. Weights on a scale. They were potential.

Even Flynn, who didn’t deserve any of this.

Flynn, who had fought tooth and nail, sacrificing patience and dignity, to uphold the same ideals as Yuri without succumbing to the same ugliness.

Flynn, who would be forced to walk that very same path—however briefly, however justified—for the sake of those ideals, and for the sake of his friend.

Flynn, who knew in his heart of hearts that there was no turning back, whose outburst was equal parts anger and grief, directed at Yuri as much as himself.

Strength, bravado, acting in the best interest of people, even self-sacrifice… those things didn’t make a hero. Yuri knew that well.

Their swords clashed for what felt like the thousandth time. Lungs burned, muscles ached, skin sweated and bled.

Yuri took a deep slice across his side to move in close, shouldering Flynn hard in the chest and forcing him back several steps. He made a wide sweep at throat-level, a move seemingly made in clumsy haste, and Flynn ducked easily to avoid it. He hit one knee, righted his sword in a two-handed grip, and launched himself forward and up. It was a heavy blow, potentially lethal if it landed right, but slow, predictable, and relatively easy to dodge—for someone of Yuri’s caliber, at least. Flynn most likely meant it as a sort of feint, to force Yuri to the side and into a more manageable position, as well as a method of getting back onto his feet. He was trusting Yuri to dodge it.

Not for the first time, that trust was betrayed.

And a hero, Yuri figured, was someone people could trust.

It hurt less than the punch, strangely enough. That was the funny thing about being stabbed: it didn’t feel like a _stab_. It felt more like a blunt strike—two of them, in this case, as the blade pierced through both his stomach and back.

But this was a bigger blade than last time, as well as a stronger hand guiding it: whatever it struck on the way through, Yuri felt the effects immediately. Blood and bile rose in his throat as his chest seemed to constrict, crushing the air from his lungs, and the effort of breathing in made his entire torso ripple with sharp spasms of pain. Much of the feeling in his legs went numb—injured nerves or merely lightheadedness, he wasn’t sure yet—and for a precarious moment that sword through his gut was the only thing keeping him upright.

Flynn had frozen in place, just short of body-slamming Yuri head-on with that lunge, but far too late to redirect his blow—and the look on his face confirmed that he had never meant for it to hit. Not like this.

The two of them were nearly nose-to-nose: Flynn’s wide-eyed disbelief, Yuri’s strained but calm acceptance. One asking _why_ and the other demanding _why not_.

“Heh…” Yuri’s voice was thick, wet-sounding, but his lopsided grin was lighthearted. “Guess that match in Aurnion… was a fluke.”

His arms weighed a hundred pounds each, but he forced his hands up and grasped Flynn’s shoulders tight. “Hey… try to look… more like a winner.” Yuri gave a hard shove, pushing himself backwards and off the blade—and consequently removing the only thing keeping his wounds closed.

He hit the ground with his jaw clenched to bite back any sounds. Warmth seeped over his back, his stomach, as the spasms exploded into burning, pulsing agony. There was the loud, ringing clatter of steel being dropped, and then Flynn was instantly kneeling by his side.

That fire in his eyes was quenched, his determination and frustration having given way to horror and regret and a different kind of anger. One hand hovered over the injury as if in reflex, close without touching, and for an instant he wasn’t a commandant or a knight or a man with a grim duty, but Flynn Scifo the person, the boy Yuri had grown up with, the man he still considered his best friend and only family, even now—and the person and the boy and the man were all one and the same, looking far too young for this burden but already bent and broken under its weight, aged beyond his years by a sin no human should ever have to bear.

For that moment he was lost, shattered, with fear rapidly filling the cracks.

“Don’t—be an idiot, Flynn.” All of Yuri’s strength was going into keeping his voice level, but even then it only partially worked. Swallowing the taste of iron in his mouth, he breathed out, “You knew—it had to end this way. Don’t deny it—”

_“It didn’t!”_ Flynn snapped from his shock with a renewed surge of that righteous anger. “It doesn’t! Just—don’t move, I—”

Yuri’s quiet, gurgling laugh hurt, but he didn’t hold back. “No healing artes… no doctors… and we’re miles… from the nearest town… Check my math.”

Flynn stared, the unspoken question written all over his face, but that was the closest Yuri was coming to an admission. “Yuri, you…”

“Listen—I don’t have much to say, so humor me—”

“Don’t talk like that, you’re going to—”

_“Listen.”_ The joking tone dropped and Yuri’s eyes hardened. He wasn’t about to shy away from the reality of his situation: he didn’t have much time and he didn’t plan to waste it. Death didn’t scare him; he saw no sense in fretting over the inevitable. He was more concerned with making sure he didn’t leave behind his biggest regret of all. “You did exactly what you had to. So after this—don’t—think it could’ve been different—don’t do that to yourself, Flynn. Just… be glad I didn’t… make a worse choice, y’know?”

Flynn vehemently shook his head. “You think giving up on yourself isn’t the worst choice?” His voice sounded rough, hoarse.

_I’m long past that point._ Keeping that thought to himself, Yuri chuckled. Each breath he took was more strained than the last. “It might be,” he mused. “But cut me some slack, man… you gonna argue—semantics with me—even now?”

That prompted a sharp, short sigh, a slower head shake. “...No. I’m not.” Flynn’s hand came up again, but settled on Yuri’s shoulder and held tight. A gesture of trust, acknowledgement. He held it together for about five seconds, and then dropped his head with a shaky exhale, his shoulders taut.

“No one’s watching, you know. And I promise I won’t—make fun of you—if you cry.”

“And what good would that do?” Flynn snapped, but his eyes were red and glossy when he looked up again.

Yuri shrugged weakly. “What good’s—beating yourself up—gonna do?”

“Shut up,” Flynn hissed. He squeezed Yuri’s shoulder until his armor rattled. “And what am I supposed to tell Lady Estellise?” he demanded.

“The truth.”

That prompted a broken grin and empty sneer. “That I struck down someone she cares about in cold blood? I guess that’s fair.”

“The _truth_ ,” Yuri repeated coolly. “That I messed up. That I was hoping you’d swoop in—like the hero you are—and save me.”

Flynn looked away, his jaw tight. His grip went slack.

“...And that you did,” Yuri added. He met Flynn’s startled stare evenly, without a hint of sarcasm or humor. When it went on a little too long, Yuri closed his eyes with an annoyed sigh. He couldn’t ever remember feeling so tired. “I’m saying _thanks,_ Flynn. Don’t make me say it again.”

Flynn finally found his voice, and it was loud. “For _what?_ I couldn’t stop you back then—I can’t even keep you alive! Where do you get off thanking me for screwing up again and again? When have I ever been of any help to you, instead of just standing by and letting you get to this point—”

Clumsily, Yuri grabbed the crook of Flynn’s arm. The metal felt warm. “You’ve always… been someone I can depend on,” Yuri answered with effort. Opening his eyes felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he managed. “For someone like me... That’s enough.” His fingers began to tremble as he struggled to hold on. “I don’t… expect you to understand, but… that’s good. Someone like you shouldn’t… have to…” He paused. Breathed. It didn’t help much. The edges of his vision were still blurred, still dark. “Give me some credit… you know I’m honest… at least. I’m not saying… anything I don’t mean. You’ve got… enough people… stroking your ego, anyway—”

His attempt at a grin fell flat as he winced at the sudden touch of cold in his chest.

“Yuri—!”

“One more thing,” Yuri slurred, talking over him. He had to squint now to see straight. Was Flynn leaning over him, or did it just seem that way? Had he let go of Yuri’s shoulder, or was he numb there, too? It didn’t matter, Yuri reasoned. All of his focus and energy went into his next words: “Sorry.” He exhaled softly, almost an apologetic laugh. “Thought I could… do all the dirty work… but…”

_Not this time._

“You’ll be fine,” he went on. “Just… keep doing… what you’ve always done. You’ll make it work.” He was vaguely aware of his hold on Flynn’s arm slipping away. His next breath was slow, difficult, as if there was a weight on his chest, and the warm air felt thin. He was cold inside and out. “Do... what I couldn’t, Flynn. You’re good at it.”

He thought he heard his name.

He thought he felt hands around his, tight and desperate.

He thought Flynn might have said something like _I will, I swear it_ , or maybe that was just the wishful, unstable thinking of a dying mind in its last moment.

In that surprisingly long pause between dark and darker, pain and nothing, Yuri was sure of one thing only: he trusted Flynn completely, to succeed where he had failed, to be everything he wasn’t. That had never changed.

Flynn would be alright.

Yuri felt like an idiot for ever thinking otherwise.


End file.
